Five Times Methos Saved the Doctor
by Jinxed-Wood
Summary: ...and One Time the Doctor Saved Him. Different faces, same man, not that Methos had realised it at the time - Multiple Doctors


**Five times Methos saved the Doctor and one time the Doctor saved him**

**I**

_1,300 BC, Persia_

His hair was long and curling, and his skin pale, as if it had not encountered the sun in a long time. His attire was strange, it's craftsmanship more detailed than anything he'd encountered before. Methos eyed the prone man lying on the sun baked ground. His eyes looked dazed and his breath was laboured, he was bleeding out onto the parched earth.

"Please, I need your help," the stranger said.

Methos bent down. "I'm sorry, but you're beyond any help I can give you. You're dying."

"Yes, but it may not be permanent, and I can't risk being seen while I try to...survive."

Methos's eyes widened, if he didn't know better, he might have thought the stranger meant that he too was an Immortal... but he did know better. He could not sense this man, his instincts did he not recognise him as one of his own.

And yet, there was a knowing look in his eyes that belied his mortal appearance, and made Methos pause. "What makes you think I will help you," he asked eventually.

The stranger laughed, it was a weak, rattling sound. "Because I'm a student of human nature, Methos," he said, before he passed out.

Methos carried the stranger to his house, and sent his servants to the market. They were alone when the light engulfed the stranger and wreaked havoc with his furnishings, and Methos felt something inside him tighten as the stranger stood up with a new face.

"Thank you," he said. His hair was now shorter, his appearance wearier. The clothes he wore didn't fit him any more, and his eyes...his eyes were almost dead from grief. "I have to go now," he said

Methos never asked him how he knew his name.

**II**

_Northern England, 1306_

Methos rubbed his hand over the beard he'd been nurturing, as he eyed the man who lay in his cot . He was in his later years, but he still had strong white teeth and his cape and clothing were well made; he obviously had wealth - so why had he been walking through a blizzard on a lonely moor, without servants or a horse?

"Polly...Jaimie...so sorry," the man muttered in his sleep. "I should have not let it happen..."

Methos frowned as he stirred the stew over the hearth. Hopefully, he had taken the man in from the cold before he'd lost the use of his extremities, but he couldn't be sure.

A loud bang on the door of his cottage interrupted his thoughts, and Methos grabbed his blade before he swung it open. A small, pretty girl, with thick dark hair, was standing there, her fist raised to bang again.

"Oh, sorry to disturb you," she said, "But I'm looking for friend--"

Silently, Methos stood aside so she could see the man in his cot.

"Oh, thank _God_, she said, as she rushed past him.

Methos shook his head ruefully. So much for the life of a hermit.

**III**

_Tennessee, 1855_

The girl's name was Nyssa Traken, and Methos couldn't quite place her accent. She referred to the ill tempered man at her side as Turlough, but Methos wasn't sure whether this was his first name or his last.

But that was the least of the mysteries she'd had brought to his door.

"Please, let us in" she had said earlier, as she had banged on his door urgently. "My friend is terribly wounded."

Methos had opened the door and glared at her. "Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"Sorry, but our need is urgent," the girl had said. "We were told that you were a Doctor...one that could be discreet."

Methos sighed, "Not discreet enough, it would seem."

"I think he may be dying," she had pressed. "And I can't risk bringing him to a physician who may talk."

"How long has he been on the run," Methos had asked.

"Excuse me?"

"It's an escaped slave we're talking about, I assume?"

"Uh, not _exactly_..."

And that was how he found himself blinking disbelievingly down at the man on his bed. The man's breathing was laboured, his fair hair plastered to his head from sweat. The wound at his side was deep...and he had two hearts.

"You do realise your friend is not human, don't you?" he asked quietly.

The man called Turlough snorted, but Nyssa clutched at his hand."Can you save him?"

In answer, Methos opened his medical bag, and took out his needle and thread.

**IV**

_Italy, 1912_

"The thing is," Smith said, "Is that you can never tell quite tell who is the one who believes, and who is the one who_knows_." He rested his chin on the curved handle of his umbrella, as he narrowed his eyes against the sun. "You see, I believe your friend Byron believes that there is more to life than what one sees, but you? You _know_, don't you, my friend?"

Methos eyed the dapper man, with the comic turn of phrase and calculating eyes. They were both sitting in a row boat on a still Italian lake, facing each other. "Very well, Mister Smith," he said. "What is it you wish to know?"

The little man leaned forward, his expression suddenly avid. "Tell me, Doctor, do you believe in Immortality?"

Methos hear thudded, but he summoned a smirk. "No," he said. "I don't _believe_ in any such thing."

Smith stared at him with a knowing smile, and tilted his head. "I think--"

The water splashed, and a head broke the surface of the water. "Professor, I found it!"

"Good work, Ace!" Smith cried, jumping to his feet as the girl waved a glowing object in the air. "Swim over!"

The boat rocked, and a snakelike tendril crept over the bow. It grabbed Smith's leg, and he cried out, his knees buckling, as another tendril slithered into the boat and wrapped itself around Smith's waist. Methos hesitated; this man suspected what he was. How he suspected, Methos wasn't sure, he definitely didn't carry a Watcher's mark. He'd already checked.

"Professor!" the girl cried out, the panic showing in her voice.

"Ace! Stay back!"

Methos sighed, and he pulled a blade from his cane, and hacked at the creature.

"Thank you," Smith said softly, as the tendrils fell back.

"You know, don't you?"

Smith smiled. "It's okay, I'll never tell. I know how to keep a _secret_."

**V**

_France, 1989_

"Oh, how lovely," the stranger exclaimed, strolling into the library as if he owned it. "Isn't it lovely, Romana?" He threw the last comment over his shoulder, as he wove his scarf several times about his neck.

"Oh, charming, I sure." A tall, imperiously beautiful woman stalked into the room after him; her hair was a rich, dark colour, and her dress was white and flowing. Methos, leaned back on his chair, amused, as two Watchers fluttered after him.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your names?" one of them ventured.

"Ah yes, I noticed that – didn't you Romana?"

"Oh indeed," Romana said. "Shocking lack of protocol, if you ask me; we may have to speak to someone about this, afterwards."

"You know, I think you may be right," the stranger mused. "Oh well, we'll discuss disciplinary action later. First things, first." He licked his finger and held in the air, as if checking to see which way the wind blew. "This way," he said, pointing dramatically in the direction of the atrium. His companion rolled her eyes but followed him as he strutted out of the library again. The two Watchers trailed them reluctantly, not quite sure how to handle them.

Methos shook his head.

Idiots.

Two hours later, the emergency alarm rang through the building, and Methos caught the arm of a passing watcher. "What's up?"

"We've got intruders, they're armed and dangerous," the Watcher said impatiently. "Priority red protocols are in place – I have to go. I'm needed at my post."

Methos frowned; protocol red meant they were supposed to shoot to kill, and the two strangers from earlier were many things, but they weren't armed. Something was up.

The alarm was cut, and Methos heard the clatter of running feet above his head; one of them wore heels...

Methos told himself he shouldn't get involved. He was here with a very definite goal in mind – to cover his tracks and disappear for another couple of centuries. "Damn it!" he cursed, as he ran to the nearest flight of steps, and took them two at a time, "I must be slipping."

It didn't take him long to find them. Did people really think supply closets were a clever place to hide in, nowadays? "If you're looking for the exit sign, I fear you may have taken a wrong turn," he drawled, as they blinked at him in the sudden light. "And for goodness sake, put your hands down, do I look armed to you?"

"Yes," they said, as one.

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"But of course. There's a dagger at the small of your back, and a gun in the holster in your ankle," Romana said.

"And lets not forget the ruddy big sword hidden in the lining of you coat," the man beside her added obligingly. "Fantastic tailoring, by the way."

Methos gave them a flat, humourless smile. "I'm hoping I don't regret this, but there is an unguarded exit in the basement, hidden behind the painting of Robespierre."

The man's wide smile beamed. "Oh, that's so thoughtful of you!" he said, as he grabbed his companion's hand. "Come along, Romana, so much to do!"

Romana waved a hand at him, just as they turned the corner. "Bye, nice meeting you again – we'll return them when we're finished!"

It was only the next morning that he realised that several of his chronicles were gone. A week later, they were back again – there were pages missing.

**AND**

_The future..._

The hunters were after him, at least six of them. The old taboos were eroding and the instinct to survive was swiftly overriding tradition. No one had taken a head on holy ground yet, but it was only a matter of time...

He stood still in the pitch black woods, his back was pressed into the bark of a tree and his feet braced against its roots. The hunters outnumbered him but they were young and town bred, and that gave him more of an advantage than they realised--

And that was when it all went wrong.

Methos heard the rumble of an engine nearby. He didn't sense any new Immortals, but there was no mistaking the urgent hiss of new voices. A dog barked, and Methos stiffened. They were using mortals as reinforcements and _they_ had brought tracker dogs with them. His advantage was swiftly diminishing.

Methos took a deep breath and began to run. he needed water to throw the dogs, and then higher ground in order to pick off his opponents. The dog's barked excitedly behind him, and a branch caught his ankle, sending him flying. He rolled and was on his feet in a moment, but pain rattled up his leg and he staggered on his feet. His ankle was broken, and it would take precious moments to heal. Moments he didn't have. A wind rustled through the leaves above him, and there was a hollow howl in the air. Methos frowned as he tried to gauge the direction of the sound.

An old British police box materialised in front of him, out of thin air, and Methos tensed, ready to face what came next. The door swung open, and a silhouette filled the brightly lit entrance. On instinct, Methos raised his sword as the person stepped out. He wore a back leather jacket and a haunted expression, and Methos faltered, not quite believing who he was seeing.

"Hallo again," he said, "Been a while - do you want to live?"

The Doctor reached out his hand

**FINIS**


End file.
